The Prophet's Magic
by ALP Unstable
Summary: Booker gets a glimpse of something else that is, was, and will be. And all told, he's having a strange day. / Bookerbeth.


He woke on a hard surface, with a sore neck and a wet cheek. There was something in front of him, no more than a foot from where he lay, blurred by the fog of sleep. He blinked. The shape resolved itself into a desk, a chair, and a beer bottle, laying on its side.

 _Here again?_

He grabbed the lip of the desk, _his_ desk, and pulled himself up. How much had he had to drink? He couldn't remember the first bottle, let alone the last. He tried to think back, and stumbled through hazy memories of a job, a girl, a clockwork bird, and…giant balloons. Giant balloons! With shops and houses and people on them. What a dream he must have had.

 _Was_ it a dream? Had to be. Cities didn't float.

Someone was pounding at the door and shouting his name. He wiped the drool from his cheek and the corner of his mouth, pressed his fingers to his temple. There was irritation, followed by a spike of fear. The money! He didn't have it. They'd come to collect and he didn't have it.

"Bring us the girl…"

Didn't have a girl, either – or did he? He was all screwed up. If only they'd leave him alone. He'd make them, if he didn't think it would make things worse. It was only by the grace of a God intent on mocking him that he hadn't already been put down for the things he'd done. He wondered whether he ought to press his luck. It wouldn't be so bad to die, all things considered.

Something tugged at him, something mostly forgotten. He couldn't die, not yet. There was something he was supposed to do. No no, it was some _one_. There was someone he owed a life. Who? What an unlucky bastard, to have to rely on him.

He shuffled across the room. He didn't want to face them, but it didn't sound like they were going to leave, so he'd have to try and stall. He'd figure something out, if he could just have a little more time. He always did. And if this happened to be the time he finally didn't, maybe he could actually work up the nerve and motivation to get out of New York.

The glass of the door was warm against his palm. He couldn't see anything beyond it, not even a shadow. Weird. He'd had it frosted, but it usually didn't block out _that_ much. There was a creak, a flash of light. The shouting broke apart and became the indistinct murmuring of hundreds of voices. There were sirens, horns, motors; a strong, acrid scent that reminded him of fire. He looked outside, and his mouth fell open.

It was New York, sure, but it was all wrong. The buildings had grown so tall that he had to crane his neck to glimpse their tops. Words and pictures made out of lights scrolled across them. The streets were filled with…what were those? They reminded him of automobiles, but they were different, with curved lines and glass windows, and there were so many, honking and chugging and rumbling. No horses. Not a single damn horse. Columns of lights hung from wires, and as they cycled through a set of colors he was sure he'd seen somewhere before, the flow of traffic changed. And on the corner, there was an orange hand on top of a lamp post, and it turned into a man, white and sparsely drawn, and when it did, a group of people in oddly-cut clothing rushed out into the street.

"What is this?"

He took a step. There was that feeling again, like he was half remembering things. He scanned the scene and his eyes fell on a man and a woman, walking in his direction, standing inappropriately close. He squinted. There was something about them…

"Oh, shit."

It was him. The man was him! And the woman was _her_ , that girl, from the place in the sky. His legs stopped working, and he caught himself on the door jamb. What the hell was going on? He suddenly felt like he was more than one person, which was ridiculous, and he shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut.

When he opened them, he was on the ground in Columbia, looking up at Elizabeth.

"Booker? Booker, stay with me."

He frowned and pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd had that dream a lot, since coming here, but this had been something else altogether. Must be starting to lose it. He'd been drinking a lot of strange crap, hardly pausing to wonder whether it was wise, so it wouldn't come as a surprise if he was starting to hallucinate.

He lifted himself up. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her tucking medical supplies back into the folds of her skirt. The air smelled of gunsmoke and death and crackled with the fizzy heat of latent electricity. Red banners rippled above his head, and clouds lit up with flashes of light. What were they doing again? Something about a whistle? Oh, and pacifying her mother, who just so happened to be dead.

Maybe the New York he'd dreamed wasn't so weird, after all.

"Booker?" She was fiddling with that thing on her finger again. "Shall we get moving?"

"Uh…yeah. Sure." He thumped himself on the side of the head with the butt of his palm. He needed to get it together. "Lead the way, I guess." He was packing a Paddywhacker, he noticed. He lifted it, popped out the cylinder. Reloaded. The bullets slid into place with a satisfying click.

The sound of her heels, reverberating off the cobble, drew his attention back to her. She'd stepped closer to him. Her face was twisted with concern, and the shape of her eyes, the slant of her eyebrows, reminded him of an altogether different kind of expression. "Are you all right?"

The heat of her body was sweet, damn sweet, sweeter than it had any right to be. He could smell her. And that corset, without a chemise, revealed a lot more than was proper for a nice girl with her kind of breeding. It made him think of that time she'd worn that sheer lingerie, from Frederick's or something, and unbuttoned her shirt during dinner, just enough to give him a peek. She'd given him that sly smile she always wore when she was aiming to tease him, and God, he'd wanted to fuck it right off her face. Later on, when she'd grabbed him by the belt loops, he…

He jumped. When the hell had that happened? Never, that was when. He hardly knew this girl, let alone knew the noises she made when he was inside… _Shit!_ He moved away from her, a bit too quickly, and her eyebrows climbed in surprise. And, goddammit, that made him think of a whole mess of other things he'd never done to or with her. "I'm fine." Deep breaths, DeWitt. His pants were tight. He looked away from her, saw a burning building. Perfect. Look at that. Think about that. "Let's go."

It took a minute to pick up the trail again. They circled the square, and then he felt a chill, heard a whisper, saw a set of prints. Didn't make any sense, but then, few things did, right about now. Elizabeth hurried on ahead of him and he did his best not to look at her backside, the shape of which he found he intimately knew. Hell, he even knew about the birthmark, on the right cheek, just below and off to the side of her tailbone.

It had happened quick. He would jump into bed with someone the moment the opportunity presented itself, but he'd thought she'd be the kind of girl who wanted to wait. There was something about her, something refined and vaguely innocent. She worked at a museum, coordinating exhibits, and she'd taken him completely at face value the day they'd met. He'd been trailing a woman on workers' comp, suspected of lying about her injury. He shouldn't have been where he was. Shouldn't have been on that ladder. But, well, he had a job to do. No questions, even after he'd told her he investigated fraud for a living. Sweet girl. He would have waited a long time for her, even in this world of hook-up apps. Lucky for him she'd turned out to have a wild side.

And God, he couldn't get enough of her.

There was a twinge in the back of his head. Dizziness and nausea sent him reeling. He stopped, tried to reorient himself. The hell was happening? They hadn't gone through another tear, had they? No, he'd just had a dream. It shouldn't have been at all like earlier, with the two sets of memories. Either way, he didn't need this. He didn't need to be thinking about the way this poor young girl looked when she was on top of him, about the way her lips would part just so and her shoulders would roll back and tighten right before she came.

"The Luteces' laboratory!"

His gaze snapped in her direction, then slid off of her and onto the building. He wanted to take her to the Poconos for their anniversary. Maybe, instead, they could go after this was finished. God knew they could use the break.

 _Oh, Jesus Christ!_

He tried the door. It resisted, of course. She'd have to unlock it. Bend over to do it, as was her wont. He could remember her bending over under other circumstances, so many times. He adjusted himself, keeping his back to her; tried to settle his pulse.

He was going out of his mind, plain and simple. And it had to be because it was centered around her. He didn't think at all about the him that had fought for Fitzroy, even though that life was bouncing around in his head, too. The problem was that Elizabeth was right there with him, and he'd be lying if he said he hadn't already been noticing and paying attention to the look of her. There was even a small part of him that had started to argue that no, it didn't matter how young she was, not after everything that had happened. DeWitt logic at its finest.

"You, uh…could you…"

Her hand brushed his arm when she came to stand beside him. He ground his teeth. "Are you sure you're all right? You seem…distracted."

 _Lizzie, you have no idea._ Lizzie? Hell! "Just wanna get this over with, is all." They really did need to get back home. He'd bought her a puppy not that long ago, some kind of lhasa apso mix, and he was sure it needed to be taken out by now. It had probably shat all over the apartment.

Well, that was okay. There was a lot he'd be willing to put up with to make her happy.

A siren blared, long and low and mournful. A rhythmic popping sounded off in the distance; gunfire echoed, went silent, started up again, was followed by shouting, manic with the passion of dissent. It struck him once more – the half-remembering. Where was he? He massaged his forehead, drawing his thumb and middle finger across his brow. He really ought to quit drinking.

"There you go."

He turned as she was swinging the door open and inward. Oh, right. Something inside the building was making a zipping, zapping noise, like electricity arcing over a frayed connection. He sighed and shook his head as he crossed the threshold, stepping off to the side so she could follow. What a job this had turned into. What a _day_.

Elizabeth moved past him, started searching through the house. He watched the sway of her hips and thought about closing his hands over them. He'd have to do something nice for her, once he got her out of here.

He wondered if she'd like museums.


End file.
